148 GAME-BIRDS AT HOME. 



power ? So I used to wonder ; yet it made me 

 love the little bird the more. I loved the young 

 robin whose spotted breast was turning red, the 

 bobolink whose bubbling joy was almost hushed 

 in the meadow, the doves that from the stubbles 

 rose with whistling wing, the highholders pitch- 

 ing from one wild cherry-tree to another, and 

 the young meadow-lark, whose breast of jet and 

 gold was now nearly as bright as that of his 

 father. All these for me in boyish days were 

 game, but I lost almost all interest in them when 

 I saw that little film of gray trailing over the late 

 summer sky, and caught those pearls of sound 

 that only one little throat can string. 



When about sixteen I started from the house 

 for a short stroll before dinner, and took my gun 

 along with only the two loads that were in it, 

 expecting to see but a lark or highholder at best. 

 Nearly a mile from the house I left the road and 

 turned into an old pasture to look for black- 

 berries. I strolled along where the white and 

 blue of the morning-glory were twining over the 

 gold of the cinquefoil, when suddenly I heard a 

 triplet of melody so soft it seemed to fall through 

 a mile of air. As I looked toward the vault of 



